


When you're ready, just say you're ready

by betterrooms



Series: Can’t deny that I want you, but I'll lie if I have to [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterrooms/pseuds/betterrooms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since they kissed, Harry can't stop noticing Zayn.</p>
<p>A continuation/a conclusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When you're ready, just say you're ready

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Take Care, Drake.

They don't talk about it. What would there be to say?

'Oh, hey Zayn. Remember that time we had a bit of a snog at your house? How did you feel about that?'

No, far too awkward. Besides, once the tour starts there isn't time to talk about anything. They're all too caught up in the stress of travelling and the pressure of performing, both on stage and in all the publicity stuff. Trying to think up new celebrity crushes for a string of almost identical interviews is pretty exhausting. Any down time is lost in the mess of food fights and Fifa tournaments and petty arguments over dirty socks in the tour bus. But at least now they’re all together again, them against the world. Harry’s missed them. He’s missed Zayn.

Harry finds himself noticing, in a way that perhaps he always did, but now he's more conscious of it. He catches himself noticing the lean strength of Zayn's arms when he's pulling clothes off backstage or the sharpness of his profile as they all pile in the back of the bus after a gig to watch a DVD or the elegance of his hands as he illustrates his anecdote to Niall with enthusiastic gestures.

Every now and then though, he thinks he catches Zayn noticing right back. He's been outside kicking a ball around with Louis and soaking up a little sun to try and chase the pallor of winter away from his pasty skin. He glances over towards the bus and makes eye contact with Zayn who's shading his face against the light with his hand, watching him. He freezes. Suddenly feels self conscious of his scrawny limbs and pigeon toes and can't bring himself to move. Zayn seems stuck too, he looks a little guilty as though he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. Finally he does these funny little finger guns, then looks like he immediately regrets it and turns to throw an arm around Niall.

A few days later and it happens again. Harry's lounging in the backstage area of the arena with his feet kicked up on a coffee table. He's eating a banana thoughtfully, lost in a day dream about being back in London. He feels eyes on him and turns to see Zayn watching from where he's passed out on the sofa. Zayn's lying on his front and his face looks soft, only just emerging from sleep. He blinks slowly and smiles sleepily over at Harry. His cheek, pressed into the seat of the sofa looks plump and Harry is immediately reminded of waking up in Zayn's cinema room with Zayn's face pushed into his neck. He'd still been sleeping when Harry had disentangled himself and snuck out, although not before placing a gentle kiss on the swell of his bottom lip, which had been loose with sleep. Harry had wanted to stay and watch him, smooth a hand through his thick hair and whisper kind things in his ear until he'd woken up and kissed him back. He didn't think he was allowed though, wasn't sure where the boundaries of this new thing lay. And besides, Zayn hates being woken and hates having his hair played with. It would have been a disaster.

This time it's Harry who breaks the moment. He can't stand the eye contact any longer, the way the air suddenly seems thick with everything that's going unsaid and he looks down at his hands. He's twisting his empty banana skin with his fingers so he aims and throws it towards the bin the other side of the room but he misses by a long way, and Zayn snorts,

'Sport really isn't your thing mate, is it?'

Harry looks indignant, says 'I'll have you know that I've always been really rather good at badminton, you dick' as he heaves himself off the chair to put the skin in the bin.

He turns just before he leaves the room though and catches the strangely fond look Zayn is throwing after him.

After that he just can't help himself. He presses his knee against Zayn's under the table at their next interview before resting his hand briefly on his narrow thigh. He tangles his little finger with Zayn's as they walk side by side in one of the endless concrete corridors behind the stage. He brushes his hand along Zayn’s spine as he sprawls on his front on his bunk reading a book.

And Harry's always loved this. The thrill of those quiet, private moments you share with someone before you finally act on the tension. All the glances and the touches and the flirty texts. But with Zayn it feels slightly different. After all, they still share the same tour bus almost all the time, he still sees him play fighting with Louis, sees him in ratty old pajamas in the morning and knows which farts are his as they all drift off to sleep. The usual mystery of fancying someone new has been replaced with a sense of deep familiarity. Perhaps that's why it's so scary, Zayn knows him. Superficial charm won't work to seduce someone who's seen you having concealer smoothed over your spots or being injected in the bum with a vitamin shot.

They're all having a sleepover in Liam's room a few days later. They've been watching football and eating awful junk food ordered through room service. Picking apart burgers and stacks of sandwiches to find anything edible. As it got late none of them could be bothered to move, instead they'd arranged themselves into heaps on the two double beds. Liam and Louis on one and Harry, Niall and Zayn on the other. Zayn's in the middle, being loosely spooned by a cuddly, fast asleep Niall.

Harry's on Zayn's other side, sleeping top to toe so his feet are at the pillows and his head's at the foot of the bed propped up on a cushion stolen from an arm chair. It's not very comfortable but he couldn't bear to watch Zayn fall asleep, see his eyelashes flutter as he dreams or feel his breath on Harry's cheek. At least not without desperately wanting to reach out and touch.

But just as he's drifting off, he feels Zayn's fingers circle his ankle. Zayn strokes the bone tenderly and whispers,

'Night'

And Harry knows that it's only meant for him. A tiny moment of intimacy among all the chaos. His heart skitters in his chest and he's suddenly fully awake. He lies there, unmoving, for what feels like hours, until he hears Zayn's breathing even out and finally manages to follow him into sleep.

The following day Zayn makes a mistake. He tweets. It’s just something generic about the city they’re in but, as usual, it unleashes a barrage of bullshit. Harry had almost felt that he’d finally wormed his way through Zayn’s defences, but they’re snapped back into place with the deluge of abuse and racial slurs. Zayn spends the day either alone in his bunk with his headphones on, lying turned to face the wall or refusing to talk and snapping whenever he’s called on to do something. And Harry understands why he’s angry, why he doesn’t want to join in with the usual stupidity, but he doesn’t understand enough to know what to say to make it better.

Harry’s lying wide awake on the bus that night as they’re shuttled to the next city, the rumble of the engine not enough to soothe him to sleep. And maybe it’s selfish but he doesn’t think he can sleep without knowing how Zayn feels, without making sure that he's OK.

He texts him, ‘u awake? x’

And a few minutes later gets the reply, ‘yup x’

 So he drops out of his bunk, pads back down the bus in nothing but his pyjama bottoms with bare feet, and climbs in with Zayn.

‘Fuck, Harry, what’re you doing'

‘Budge up, I want to cuddle’

He settles himself in. Zayn’s lying on his side in his boxers looking at him with wide, surprised eyes, pressed against the wall of the bus. And in the half light all of Zayn’s angles are thrown into sharp relief. The slice of his cheekbones and the lines of his ribs. It’s such a handsome contrast with the soft length of his eyelashes and cushiony lips.

Harry lies on his back and pulls Zayn into his chest so his head is tucked into Harry’s shoulder, their legs tangled together. He strokes down the smooth skin of Zayn’s side, fingers lingering over his hip. He feels a little unsettled, there’s an awkward tension between them in the silence. It’s normally Harry who clumsily bulldozes his way through any uncomfortable situation, but this time it’s Zayn who speaks first.

‘Sorry for being grumpy earlier’ he murmurs into Harry’s chest.

Harry still doesn’t know what to say, so he just moves his hand to brush over Zayn’s cheek. It’s unshaven, bristly, and he enjoys its roughness against his fingertips, can feel the delicateness of his bones beneath his skin. Zayn moves, leans over Harry and looks down on him, holding himself up on an elbow and smiles this funny little half smile.

‘Harry, you’re quite, you know,’ he pauses, then says in a rush ‘you’re quite fit yeah’

‘yeah?’ Harry replies, laughing silently.

A wave of anticipation washes over him. He knows, now, where this is heading. Knows that Zayn really has been noticing.

Zayn holds his jaw, tips it forward slightly with a firm hand and leans down to kiss him. There’s no hesitation, his mouth is confident and resolved and Harry feels himself melt. Zayn catches Harry's bottom lip between his teeth and pulls, but it’s tender.

The kiss is potent, Harry’s can’t think right as he holds Zayn’s jaw, kisses him deeply. He rolls them, and leans over Zayn a little, slides his hands down Zayn’s body. He’s slight, but the muscles of his chest and stomach are firm underneath his skin. And Harry’s seen how he looks, has watched his lithe movements and supple strength and being able to have that, to feel him underneath him, is completely intoxicating. He wants to devour him.

There’s no room in the bunk though, Harry’s aware that one of his feet is poking out from underneath the curtain and Zayn has one hand braced on the low ceiling. They gasp into each other’s mouths between kisses, and Harry lets out a moan from deep in his throat. Zayn stops kissing him, presses his hand over his mouth,

‘Shhh, shhh, they’ll hear’ then leans forward and whispers into Harry’s throat ‘I want you, Harry, so badly. So fucking hot’

The fragility Harry had felt when they kissed before has been replaced with desperation. He wants Zayn to come, he wants to know what he looks like, what he sounds like, what he smells like. Wants to feel the hot pulses of Zayn’s come shoot over his hand and so he can taste him, lick him off his fingers. He reaches into Zayn’s boxers and Zayn does the same. They wrap confident hands around each other and stroke in time until Harry’s panting against Zayn’s hand, still covering his mouth.

When they come, within moments of each other, it feels like spiraling. Like falling. And when they kiss softly afterwards, Harry feels drained, all the build up culminating in mutual hand jobs in a cramped bus bunk. He wouldn’t swap it for anything though. Because now he knows that Zayn wants him too, that they can do this again.

When he wakes the next morning with one of Zayn’s skinny legs thrown over his waist and his arm over Zayn’s shoulder he finally knows he’s allowed to steal a kiss.

 


End file.
